Sacrificial Intelligence
by Inks Inc
Summary: Intelligence is leaking & people are dying. The very fabric of American civilisation is at risk. When the call to duty goes out, he answers. However, it is soon clear that all is not as it seems. The lesson of international politics is one he'll learn the hard way. With his life hanging in the balance, could it be that he is betrayed by the very people he is counting on? COMPLETED
1. Curtis

The wrought iron bars of his wartime era cell were as sturdy now, as when they had contained prisoners hundreds of years previously. His hands caressed the bars absentmindedly. They would surely come for him soon, for the last time, and it would be over.

It was a mere fifteen meters to the spot where he would be executed.

Then again, maybe they might just shoot him where he stood.

His eyes flickered around the stone walls, limp with dampness. Scratch marks of the desperate men before him were still evident in the unforgiving flanks. His eyes darted away.

He would not add to those marks.

He would die with the dignity he maintained, whilst everything else of him had been stripped in successive, unyielding blows.

For several months, at least, he thought they were months, he didn't have the luxury of a calendar, he had held onto hope.

He had cherished it.

As he loped back to the plank of wood masquerading as a jailhouse bed, he sat with a reflective sigh.

He was still young.

Still so much to do, so much to see.

Now, he never would.

The thin sliver of moonlight that danced through the bars protecting the window from liberty was almost friendly in its presence. Everything else about this non-governmental prison was so harsh, so rigid.

He watched the light flicker off the walls, its gentle gate illuminated in his sunken eyes. Those eyes that had once held so much mirth, so much light, were now watered down versions of their former selves.

It was as if the shutters had been drawn on them, they could now only take in the horror that surrounded him, projecting it back through his faded irises. His ears caught the tell-tale sounds of a scuffling in the corner, and he instinctively drew his bare, bloodied feet upwards.

The horrifically large and bloodthirsty jailhouse rat whom he'd pragmatically named Curtis was with him now. He could tell.

His eyes flickered to the small boulder like rock he'd managed to pry from a crack in the stoned walls. It was his only line of defence between his flesh and Curtis' insatiable appetite. Plucking it up half-heartedly in abused hands, he held it in a loose grasp.

Either his immune system was still working to the fullest of its abilities, or Curtis didn't carry any life threatening diseases. He had hoped, perhaps in his darkest moments, that the many bites adorning his person would become festooned with disease and he would simply pass onto whatever awaited him in his sleep.

It wasn't to be.

The scurrying continued as he sat rigidly still on the creaking iron bed. His hair, once pristine in nature, now tickled his shoulders when he moved his head. Its greasy, lank form a stark illustration of the transition from his previous to life to…well, his current predicament.

A tail could now be seen under the jutting rock of the far corner, and he held his home crafted weapon a little tighter.

As his eyes strained to make out the creatures form in the semi darkness, he felt the uncomfortable pulling around his eyes. His skin had become dry and cracked during his…stay, and the slightest of natural movement irritated the grossly dehydrated organ.

He ran a dry tongue over cracked lips and wondered if the twenty millimetres or so of water remaining to him would be his last drink.

He smiled slightly at that, slivers of skin piercing in protest at the movement.

He'd always thought his last drink would be the finest of liquors, consumed in the midst of the finest of surroundings.

A throaty, rasping chuckle reverberated around the freezing cell.

How wrong, how very, very wrong he had been.

A clawed paw was inching further into view, and the rock was clutched tighter still.

Leaning his head against the wall, he felt his mind wander involuntarily. He'd tried so hard to train it, to control his subconscious dwellings but they still happened.

…happened all the time.

A haze of faces swum in a reeling haze before his eyes. Memories attaching to those faces spread throughout his mind, distributing a warmth that was cruel in its fleetingness. He knew, from bitter experience, that as soon as he allowed himself to be comforted by those images, they would be snatched from him.

Another Curtis owned appendage crept closer into his peripheral view, and he swallowed hard. The rat seemed to have a particular fondness for him. There _were_ other prisoners to choose, but no, his skin had seemingly proven to be the more luscious.

Rubbing a hand roughly over his scarred face, he winced at the result of his stupidity.

A boil, the size of a moderate to small golf ball erupted at his touch, sending forth a mixture of green pus and fresh blood down his face. He gasped at the biting pain, even though his tolerance for pain had grown exponentially, and rubbed delicately at the open sore.

Holding up a ragged sleeve to stem the onslaught, he sighed to himself.

He had been slightly more contented over the last week or so, and he wasn't sure what to make of it. Since he had firmly and irrevocably given up hope of rescue, the nerves and the terror that had taken up residency in his stomach seemed to have dampened somewhat.

Since he'd banished any positive thinking about the people who owned the faces that had swum in mind's eye despite himself, his senses had been at somewhat more of an ease.

They weren't coming.

Hell, they didn't even _care._

So he'd resigned himself to this state of affairs, in the full understanding that he would be more miserable, more battered internally than ever before.

…but he was not.

He was as uncaring as it was possible to be in the situation he was living. The much fed insecurities of times gone by told him that this was because they had _never_ really cared. That he had merely told himself that so many times over the years, that he had foolishly, stupidly, really come to believe it.

They were one of the most elite teams housed on American soil, and if they had not found him by now, it was simply because…they weren't looking.

Curtis was now in full view, and the boulder was raised high.

A carefully aimed, perfectly executed throw sent the rat scurrying for the hole he had crawled through, repeating the same dance he and the cell's occupant danced every night. Except…when the occupant lost the dance that was, and Curtis decided to stick around.

His oddly vitriolic and semi catatonic thoughts were free to swirl around in his mind once more as the tail whipped out of view.

They didn't care, so logically, _he_ shouldn't care.

He _shouldn't_ care and…he _should_ answer…their questions.

The scars, the burns and every other laceration nestling on his body were born from the opinion that loyalty was a constant concept. That fidelity was a two way street upon which the good and the righteous marched, to the exclusion of the unscrupulous, the disloyal.

He exhaled slowly, lost in the irony of misconceptions formed in childhood and carried into adulthood.

 _Loyalty_ …what a laugh, what an infant's creation.

He stood abruptly and ignored the answering protests of his battered and abused muscles, and made his way back to the iron bars, replacing the absent minded hand that caressed the stout metal.

Leaning a borderline unrecognisable head upon the cool bars, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the all consuming darkness.

The almost crooning words that fell from his mouth, spoken to no one, were so coated in dripping sarcasm that they seemed to ease the stiff lips from which they dropped.

 _Semper Fi…._

….

TBC

….

A/N: This story isn't at all related to my other NCIS stories. This idea has been rattling around my head for a while, and I've decided to see where it goes!

Thanks for reading.


	2. Curious Minds

His fitful sleep was interrupted as indifferent hands yanked him from the stone like mattress. The thin, torn blanket was pulled from his increasingly frail frame, as he was dragged to his feet with a rough force.

His eyes flickered open, as his heart sank in his chest.

These two….were his least favourite of an intensely motley crew. Whilst every guard under the seized prison's purview were hardly devout Catholics', some were more…hedonistic in their approach than others.

The two that pierced his softening upper arms with their clawing grips, were definitely in the latter category.

As he was dragged from his cell, he gauged by the fading moonlight and slightly orange sky that it was pre dawn. His feet missed every second step, as his weak body failed to keep up with the pace of the guards' brisk gate.

All too soon they were outside the door. The door that dogged his nightmares, the door that muffled his shrieks of agony from the room within. He had seen the wild look on other prisoners faces as they were dragged on the journey to that door, and their sunken expressions would remain with him until the day he died.

Which, if there was any higher power up there, he prayed to be soon.

The door was opening now, and four rough hands cast merciless pressure on his scarred back as he was thrust inwards.

The heavy oak snapped shut with an almost mocking flourish, as two different sets of hands grasped him as he fell, in some kind of sadistic guard relay.

He knew better than to fight as he was unceremoniously pushed, prodded and poked in the direction of the large, specially customised chair that sat in foreboding bleakness in the centre of the room. Try as he might, he never could stop himself from wondering which of the blood stains dotting the expensive wood belonged to him.

The small supply of oxygen that was housed in his lungs was knocked out of him as he was shoved heavily into the chair. The heavy steel wrist and ankle bindings were soon snapped into place, and his fate was once again sealed.

The two guards sprang from his side as soon as his shackles were secure, and took up post across the room, on either side of the door.

Outside, the two previous guards also stood, rapt to attention.

Not for the first time he wondered what was with all the pageantry. Did they expect him to miraculously leap from this binding chair, and fight off four or more military armed men?

His head lolled onto his once broad chest as he waited. He knew the wait wouldn't be long, it never was. His eyes fell habitually upon the tables full of bottled water and fresh fruit that lay in the corner. His mouth instinctively watered, as if pleading with him to force his vision into reality.

…but the reality was, that table might as well have been in the North Pole, for he was never going to sample any of its contents.

The small circular room was different in comparison to the majority of the prison. It was much more…equipped. Instruments of varying degrees of ferocity hung from the walls. A well worn defibrillator stood in the corner, its paddles at the ready to bring back any unfortunate soul that dared to have the audacity to try and die before their time was up.

He could still feel the marks from the oafishly placed paddles on his chest.

The wait continued, as he mindlessly roved tired eyes over the armed goons on his side of the door.

He had previously assessed them as in their mid to late thirties. True believers, not mercenaries.

Keeping his observational skills alight was like a small triumph to him in the beginning, a way of protecting his mind.

Now…now he didn't really care, they were just something to look at. Like an obscure painting in a up and coming gallery, that no one really cared about, but gazed at nonetheless.

The wait was over.

Snapping his head off his chest, he felt his abdominal muscles tense up of their own volition as the door creaked open, and the stationary men jumped to attention.

A confident bordering on egotistical wave of a hand set them back at ease, as the owner of the same hand walked slowly into the room, taking his sweet time, his footing meticulous.

The bare bulb that hung in the centre of the room illuminated in stark contrast this man's disturbing features. The first time he had laid eyes on them, the stale bread in his stomach had churned with a wrenching force.

Now…now as he looked up into the face of his tormentor, he felt only the fear he had grown accustomed to in his presence.

The terror.

The disgust, the automatic recoiling at the scarred and gaping visage at long since dissipated. The one blue and one brown eye no longer perturbed him. Even the missing ear lobe of the right ear was now but a mere detail, as too was the waxy complexion pulled tight over sunken cheekbones.

Suddenly the man was right in front of him, baring yellowed teeth in a manic grin as he ran appraising eyes over his long term captive. The malicious glint that was alive in his eyes could belong to no other than a sadistic sociopath.

The inmate knew that the man standing before him _felt_ nothing, and therefore was utterly incapable of appreciating the horror he inflicted upon his various victims.

Like Curtis though, he seemed to have developed an expansive appetite for _him._ The scarred captive was the prisoner he spend the longest time with him, vibrating with a quivering pleasure as his pained shrieking would hit crescendo pitch.

The weak amber light emitted by the sole light bulb was cut off slightly as the man slowly began dragging a chair across the flagged stone ground, its metallic screeching not bothering him in the least, whilst causing the eyes to water of the three other men.

Swivelling the chair around, he sat straddling it, the cruel hands grasping the chairs back as he silently surveyed his prey.

Had he been a man capable of admiration, he would have perhaps respected the way his muted victim looked him in the eye, held his gaze with a still strong jaw.

…but he was not, and he did not.

All his concerns were bottled into making this bound man break, and talk. As soon as he talked of course, he would be killed, but there was no need to inform him of that little fact right now.

He was a stubborn one, maybe the most stubborn one they'd ever had.

They'd named him Mule amongst themselves in testament to his now borderline incredible obstinacy.

…but perhaps today would be the day, perhaps his tongue would loosen in today's light.

Carefully unbuttoning the clasps on his shirt sleeves, he rolled them up with a calculating slowness, his eyes carefully trained on Mule for a reaction.

He didn't get one.

He had to chuckle at that. This one really did have guts.

With the green heavy fabric tucked up to his elbows, he leered at the silently staring captive, his head tilted slightly as he assessed him.

When he spoke, his velvety voice was at complete odds with his less than suave appearance. The surprise that this had caused the captive in the beginning had long since faded, and he showed no signs of…anything, as the voice began to fill the room.

"Surely you see how fruitless your valour is my friend?" the tormentor crooned, his lips curving up as he spoke in flawless, though heavily accented English. "Why continue this fight? You surely know now that they, who you thought friends, have abandoned you?"

Silence coated the room as prisoner and keeper stared at each other. The keeper part of the equation, christened Vlada, drank in every macro and micro expression bursting of the bound Mule and felt his eyebrows contract.

Nothing. This maddening inmate showed absolutely no emotion whatsoever.

The thick, dark eyebrows eventually arched upwards as Vlada considered his next move. It was perhaps earlier than he had envisaged using his…visual aid, but this particular man seemed to have truly mastered the art of physical indifference.

It was time to test his mental indifference.

With a click of his fingers and a pointed look, the two guards at the door scrambled to obey and unspoken command.

Even the ruthless, merciless self appointed guards were terrified of the infamous Vlada.

The door creaked open as they fled, and it was just victim and abuser. Each stared at the other with a cultivated expression of blankness.

Inside the stomach of the captive, his internal organs were clenching with fear.

What had those guards gone to fetch?

The walls were adorned with every sadistic tool known to man, and his body bore the marks of considerable experience with them.

What else could there be?

He didn't have to wait too long to find out, as the distant sounds of squeaking became clear, becoming louder and louder with each muffled step of the returning men.

He wouldn't look.

He wouldn't show fear.

His years of experience and an unfaltering instinct told him that to show fear, even a flickers worth to the man gazing at him, would be tantamount to surrender.

The squeaking had entered the room, and he fought with all his might to keep his eyes faced forwards, petrified by the sudden thought that this could be an even larger Curtis.

If ever there was a place to house a genetically modified, gargantuan rodent, it was this godforsaken hellhole.

…but, it wasn't.

He blinked.

It was…a television, on a wheeled stand, being steered directly in front of him. With its remote being pressed into Vlada's hand, the guards sprang back to their positions.

Caressing the remote in his cruel hands, the militarily dressed man leaned back with a feral grin.

"You know Mule…you, over time, have begun to strike me as a _visual_ learner. You sit there, like a proud peacock, determined to defend the honour of your country, even to your dying breath. You, like all you _American's,_ labour under this…delusion, that you all care for each other."

He bared yellowing teeth as he chuckled dangerously.

"You think that you are all one big happy family, isn't that right? No doubt, in your earliest days here you slept securely in the knowledge that your _team_ would _come for you."_

His sarcastic laugher danced off the walls, seeming to attack from every avenue.

"Over time I'm sure that belief must have dwindled, for you are not a completely foolish man. I have offered you a position, here, with us already. All you have to do, is _talk."_

He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his knee before continuing, his perfect English heightened by his native nuances.

"You have gone through so much my dear man" he crooned, tilting his head like an inquisitive child. "Why go through any more pain? Hmm? Your country, your fellow countrymen…they have abandoned you. They have left you here, all alone, to _die._ They do not give you a second thought."

He scratched his chin.

"So why die for them? Why die for a country that would turn its back on you, that would send you into harm's way…"

His eyes lit up with that demonic glee.

"Send you _my_ way…"

Silence descended as Vlada allowed his words, more than he had ever spoken in one sitting, to register in the brain of the man before him.

He waited for the rage, the hurt, all the _emotions_ of lesser men to peter through.

He waited.

…and waited.

Nothing. The eyes merely stared back at his with an impassiveness that was illogical in nature and unseen in experience.

This prisoner…was definitely unique.

"Ok Mule" Vlada whispered softly in eventual response, "have it your way."

A button was pressed, and the television shuddered into life.

At first, his brain wouldn't cooperate. It tried to shield him from the reality he was seeing, blur the lines that were joining.

…but it couldn't.

All too soon, its defences fell and the images flickering on the screen in front of him bore into his mind with a hammering force.

There was someone else at his desk.

Everything he owned had been swept from it.

Although silent, he could imagine the joviality of the voices of those pictured, as they engaged in downtime banter.

 _Downtime…_

The hours or so between a closed case and a fresh case were always the most relaxed, the most normal, and judging by what he was seeing, he was looking at just such a time.

They were having _downtime_ whilst he….whilst he sat bound to his chair? This chair soaked with his, and others blood?

He could no longer school his features into nonchalance.

He felt his jaw drop as he read the real time timestamp, rapid calculations in his mind letting him know that the time being displayed slotted correctly with the time variance where he was.

He watched in piercing hurt as his _team_ laughed and joked, and ate take out.

Then all of a sudden his heart lifted infinitesimally.

One of his possessions remained on his old desk, a gift given to him by a victim of an early case.

He had cherished that clay monument.

They all knew that.

Perhaps they had left it there for that reason.

He watched as a paper ball went sailing through the air, and watched as its target danced out of its way, accidentally knocking against his old desk.

His heart clenched as the force caused the heavy paperweight to fall from the surface top and crash to the floor, instantly smashing in two clean halves.

Surely this would cause waves.

Surely this would be like an omen to them, that he was one of them…or he had been, and they still had not found him, or his body.

Surely…this would garner _some_ kind of reaction.

He felt his jaw drop another inch as the accidental breaker reached down for the destroyed gift, with all other eyes on him, and merely shrugged his shoulders before tossing it into the nearest bin.

The obvious banter that immediately started in the wake of a fresh paper ball was as jarring a viewing as he'd ever witnessed.

With a final glimpse of his obvious replacement being playfully tussled by another member of his…of the MCRT, the television suddenly went blank.

Curling his long fingers over the remote, Vlada tipped it gently against his chin.

"Well well…" he muttered softly, "it's almost as if you were never there at all isn't it? How sad, how very sad…"

This time he got the reaction, the eyes were filled with rage mixed with hurt. The scars on his face seemed to almost quiver with angst.

"Come, my dear man…tell me what I need to know, just tell me…"

He paused, drinking in the betrayal in front of him, before waving a lazy arm at the two men at the door, and by implication, the two men outside the door.

"Your country, the friends you thought were your family…they are gone to you now. You are dead to them, assuming of course, you were ever _really_ alive to them…"

He licked his lips, like a lion toying with a wounded hyena. This man's pain was so delicious, so raw…so _useful._

"Join me."

…

TBC

…


	3. Sovereign Soul

He didn't know how long had passed since that video had burned into his mind, but he guessed maybe a month. Not that it really mattered anyway, time was but a mere academic concept these days.

His mind was the worst prison cell.

He could never escape it. It couldn't be dulled by alcohol, or the trappings and frivolities of the free man. No music was available to sooth his frayed nerve endings, no books present to transport his psyche out of the damp, dripping stone walls.

All he had was himself, and that had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to accept.

Never before would he have believed it possible, let alone probable, that they would brush him off as a bank might a bad debt. He had never before countenanced the idea that with his life in obvious peril, they would merely sweep aside his belongings, and bring in the next dispensable fool.

His eyes fluttered shut as he lay on the stiff, creaking bed and a small icy breath escaped him, hovering in front of him for a moment, before fading away in nothingness.

Just like him.

A sudden surge of pain erupted within him, and he clenched his eyes tighter still. His most recent refusal to talk had been met with a bout of savagery that had far surpassed anything else he had endured.

Which was a feat in itself.

They were getting desperate now. He could tell. There was a clock placed on his breaking, and he wasn't conforming. Their measures were growing increasingly barbaric, and his every nerve had borne the brunt of it.

…but still, still he would not talk. He would merely stare blankly over their heads, thankful at least for agency training in torture resistance. He would transcend himself into the deepest state of dissociation as he was physically possible of, which muted the pain somewhat.

…but only somewhat.

His mental pain though, his internal anguish. There was no running away from that, there were no defence mechanisms. The bitter taste of betrayal kept its acidic presence in his mouth from dawn till dusk.

A feeble ray of sunlight fought its way into his cell, its faint glow throwing the small box into some semblance of natural light.

How he missed the sun, the gentle breeze. He yearned for a breath of fresh air, but he knew that would never happen now.

His lungs would only know the stagnant, tainted air of his accommodations until they day they ceased to operate. He wondered for the hundredth time when they would just admit defeat, shoot him, and move on to the next abduction ploy.

His mind flickered back to that night involuntarily. Beleaguered eyes roved under frail lids as the memories replayed, a visual reel of the beginning of his nightmare.

He had been laughing.

He had been relaxed.

The hood that had been thrown over his head had come out of nowhere, and no natural instinct for danger could have protected him from it. The thunderbolt of tazer electricity had thundered through him, and he had crumpled.

Efficient, professional and seasoned hands had grabbed him and shoved him into an awaiting van.

The whole operation was seamless. Flawless.

The cool metal under his back as he was tossed and thrown about the back of a squealing van had helped to kick his agent instinct into gear.

…but it was no use.

He was outnumbered, out-gunned and outsmarted. His eyes contracted some more as he recalled that that laugh on the street, the pleasant balmy breeze…they were the last ones.

He hadn't smiled since. He never would.

It had taken about eight or nine hours to get to where he currently lay. There was a plane involved, he hadn't seen it, but he gathered from its sound and gate that it was a small charter craft.

His heart constricted once again in his aching chest as the flickering images swam across his consciousness.

They had been out to dinner that evening. The evening of the beginning of the end of his life. He had laughed and joked with his _team_ that night. Their natural banter shining through, he had felt relaxed, happy, contented…

The lips twitched with a sardonic mirth.

He couldn't even remember what those emotions truly felt like now. He had experienced nothing but fear and pain for the better part of a year, and what was left of his personality seemed to seep from him a little more, on a daily basis.

He wondered, and for the first time, had they seen his abduction?

He had parted ways from them, to set off towards his own home, but they were still grouped outside the restaurant waiting for a cab to take them in the opposite direction to him.

Had they seen?

Had they seen…and just not cared?

The lips twitched again, with no feeling behind them. No, if they had seen…they _would_ have cared.

Of course they would.

…but not about him.

Oh no, that much was now abundantly clear. However, he had enough knowledge, detailed, intricate knowledge to be a very dangerous anti American tool in a terrorist's tool belt.

His eyes squeezed tighter as he ran over the thoughts he had pondered a hundred times over, a hundred different ways.

There was a mole at NCIS.

That was a given.

He had been targeted for a reason. He had been specifically selected for his degree of knowledge, and his ability to source more intel. He was not a crime of opportunity, he was a crime of stealthy selection.

That degree of insider information, _had_ to have come from the inside.

Put that together with the recent, mysterious deaths of two other long time NCIS agents, and they had themselves a full blown internal crisis.

The pained lips jerked again.

 _Oh well._

Perhaps _now_ they would realise what they had squandered. His loyalty had been unwavering, unquestioned and unrestrained.

He hadn't hesitated when the undercover operation had come barrelling down the tracks.

He had been a _good soldier,_ willing to put himself in harm's way to protect his country.

To avenge the deaths of his fellow agents.

…and perhaps that had been his most grievous error.

Perhaps Vlada was _right._ Perhaps this illusion of loyalty, fidelity… of devout dedication was the agency's biggest downfall.

Everyone has a tipping point.

 _Everyone._

His eyes feebly opened of their own accord, to be met with the sight of the dripping, flag stone roof of his suite. His ears caught the very faint strains of a potential Curtis presence.

His gaze flickered towards his boulder, but his arms remained stationary.

Let him come.

What the hell.

Turning on his side, a wave of nauseating pain shot through him as his battered physique groaned in protest.

He might as well try and get some sleep.

They would probably come for another little…chat, soon, and he always found distancing his mind from his physical reality a more accomplishable feat with a little sleep under his belt.

His last thought before he drifted off to an uneasy rest, was that of the bizarre and disturbing jealously he had felt when the guards had come for his next door neighbour three nights ago.

It was his time to die.

Instead of being afraid he was next. Instead of feeling horrified about the complete disregard for human life, he had felt…envious.

Prisoner 482 was now free.

And he, Prisoner 392, remained captive. Physically, mentally chained and bound. Feeling sleep begin to wash over him, he prayed, and not for the first time, that he would be next.

Surely…surely, he would be next.

Two or three hours passed in a fitful sleep, before a great clambering and hammering rose him.

His gut clenched.

They were early…

Sitting up slowly and painfully, he drew himself up to him fullest height.

He still had some dignity.

He swallowed subtly, no need for an outward display of apprehension. That would merely add fuel to the sadistic fire.

They were here.

The stout iron door swung open, as Vlada and three guards sauntered in with a cockiness that defied reality.

The three underlings took up a protective stance behind their leader, staring at the scarred inmate with cold, indifferent eyes.

Crouching down in front of his most complex prey, Vlada licked his lips, his grotesque face contorting horribly at the effort.

Placing a hand on either side of the seated prisoner, he looked him straight in the eye.

"We are busy people" he drawled slowly, "and you know how it is around this time of the year, bookings are sky high."

He grinned at his own hilarity, as his three companions guffawed appreciatively.

Holding up a waxy, tattered hand he silenced them with an immediacy that was both grudgingly impressive and terrifying.

"So" he continued, in a feigned tone of apology "I'm afraid that we need your presidential suite here, for a more, shall we say… _appreciative guest."_

He paused, showing yellowed teeth in a sadistic grin as the prisoner showed absolutely no reaction, and merely continued his trademark staring at a point over his head.

"Just so we're clear" he continued softly, in his most dangerous tone, "you are aware of the meaning of my words?"

Complete impassiveness met him for a moment, before the inmate nodded his head with a sharp jerk.

"What do I mean, my friend?"

The three goons stared intensely, they had _never_ seen anyone react this way before. Despite his penchant for obstinacy, they never dreamed that the Mule could be _this_ indifferent.

A thin, rasping voice suddenly drifted around the cell.

A shadow of its former self.

"You mean that this is my last chance to talk, or you'll kill me today. Or you'll kill me, right now."

Vlada bared his teeth once more in an appreciative grin, that concealed the _need_ he felt for this infuriating man to break. To bend to his will.

To conform.

"You are correct" he breathed, his eyes widening as he took in the completely unperturbed stance of the sitting duck.

A sharp nod was once again offered.

"I know I am" Mule muttered, "but you…. are not."

Cruel, emotionless pupils dilated with surprise. What was this conundrum chattering on about? He, Vlada, was many things. Incorrect, was not one of them.

A chin was tipped upwards defiantly, as the man stared him dead in the eye, with a bravery that the trio of guards secretly had to admire.

"I…" he paused to glare, another impressive feat, "am _no_ friend of yours."

The lead inquisitor felt his jaw drop slightly as an icy silence sliced its way through an equally icy cell.

"Very well" he murmured curtly, "any last words my dear _foe,_ before we sort out the ahh…particulars? We are sticklers for proper death notifications you see. It's custom."

Bloodied lips once again curved upwards, forcing the many scars and lacerations on the still handsome face to vibrate with pain, a pain that was stiffly ignored.

" _God bless America."_

Four jaws dropped in synchronisation as the three words rattled around the freezing box.

This was a first.

This was a first to end all firsts.

Recovering first, and realising that he had never met an inmate like this in his life, Vlada blinked away the confusion and frustration, and whipped a heavy sheaf of paper from the inside pocket of his green military dress coat.

Pulling a pen from behind a lobe-less ear, he tilted his head, like a curious cat and poised himself for writing.

"Your full name, for the record?" he demanded in clipped, brusque tones, arching a brow.

The eyes found his once again, and the sadist saw nothing but resolution in them.

No fear. No regret.

If he were a gambling man, which he was not, he would have guessed that the predominant emotion staring at him was…relief.

This man, was relieved to die.

A sense of heathen like pride filled him as he registered his own prowess, and already, he was looking forward to fresher meat.

"Your name?" he snarled again, wanting to get the execution over as quickly as possible. They were no fun, and therefore required no lengthy duration.

A tongue was whipped across tattered lips, and a breath was sucked in.

"My name… is Agent -"

A crash cut him off. A split second later, all hell broke loose.

…..

TBC

…..


	4. Mind over Matter

Coughing through the sudden sand like storm of dust that swum around him, the astonished man felt his eyes bulge in his sockets. Glancing with a gaping mouth around the room, his pupils dilated as he took in the dead forms of the three armed guards.

His ears rang with the tell tale sound of heavy calibre bullets, their gate deafening in the tight confines and naturally amplifying make up of the small room.

The pupils contracted even further at the sight of Vlada slipping down the wall, his waxy fingers scrubbing frantically at an open wound that was spewing blood between the man's hands with a waterfall force.

He would be dead in a matter of seconds.

Paper thin eyelids fluttered over the astonished eyes.

This couldn't be real.

Perhaps now, his own mind was beginning to betray him as soundly as his body was.

The acerbic, thick dust coated his throat and he wheezed half heartedly.

…but if the smoke like substance was real, didn't that mean that the fire had to be real as well?

Opening his eyes once more, he saw the forms of various figures hovering over him, gazing at him with hungry eyes.

His own eyes blinked in confusion as those figures began to take discernible forms.

His heart sank as they did, and he cursed himself for allowing his mind to torture him so. He had thought he had done an adequate job in putting those demons to bed, and yet now…they were well and truly of said bed, dancing before his very eyes.

Turning his head to avoid the sickening hallucination, he wondered manically would they shoot him in the midst of a psychotic break.

His lips curved at that.

It wouldn't be that bad of a way to go. All things considered, it almost had the propensity to be considered quite peaceful.

Slipping away into the unknown, his heart being stopped in one single discharge, surrounded by loved ones.

Fake, wispy, spiritual loved ones who had never actually given a rat's ass about him, but _still,_ it wasn't so bad.

He briefly hoped Curtis would find a new friend.

Lolling in the chair, he was vaguely aware of hands touching him. They were quite gentle for executioner hands he pondered, as his head lolled down onto his chest.

He was quite lucky he supposed, not everyone was so gently pressed and poked in their death chair. A death bed was too much to ask for, and if such a bed was anything like his cell brick mattress, he was ok with this chair.

Voices continued to echo around his head, and he resolutely ignored them.

He focussed on his breathing.

How had he never truly appreciated with a marvel the human body was?

Even now, in the immanency of his long awaited death, his heart beat with a ferocious gate, working hard to keep him alive. To keep him tethered to this earthly plane he so yearned to depart.

His lungs contracted and expanded with a reliability that also defied his needs. His brain too, continued to send all the necessary communications to his vital organs, ordering them to keep him rooted to this godforsaken hell hole.

The voices just wouldn't stop, and he turned his head further away in ire.

Hadn't he made it clear? Hadn't he sacrificed major portions of soft tissue in his pursuit of clarity on the matter?

He would not talk.

He did not _want_ to talk.

He was unequivocally _done_ with the art of speech.

All he wanted now was to die. To die with a muted dignity, to die the death he had earned.

A quick one.

A one where his earthly suffering would be ended with an immediacy, his mortal pain extinguished upon the collision of bullet and heart.

Alas.

The hands kept groping him, as he kept his eyes firmly shut. He was done with this game, he wouldn't open his eyes any more.

They were done.

He was done.

He'd seen enough.

More than enough.

Confused voices swam in a disorientating haze above him, and he tucked his chin down on his chest. Trying in vain to protect himself from their onslaught.

Fate was a cruel mistress.

Not satisfied with his physical dilapidation, it had seen fit to crucify him with his own psyche. To, in his dying moment, needle him with its despicably out of reach visions.

The voices were hauntingly true to form, as he shook his head in pointless frustration, eyes clamped tightly shut.

All those times, all those cases when he couldn't wrap his head around the things people would do and then blame it on voices, came back to him now…now that _his_ voices were so devastatingly real.

It was as if they were standing right in front of him, it was as if the hands that were still prodding at him were theirs.

They were certainly more gentle than Vlada had ever proven capable of. Perhaps he mellowed at the finish line, perhaps a gentle presence was his way of sending his victims off into the next world.

Eyes rolled under still resolutely shut lids.

That didn't exactly fit in with the sadist's pattern of bloodthirsty torture. No…no, this was some kind of god awful continuation of his imprisoned hell.

Surely…surely they hadn't changed their minds.

His heart plummeted with the speed of a rocket. Bile rose in his throat. He couldn't take it anymore.

He'd been as good a soldier as he possibly could. He'd endured more than his fair share of horror. He'd kept his secrets, he'd protected his country.

He deserved a reliable death.

That's all he asked…to have the life snuffed out of him as quickly as possible.

Well, what little life remained in him anyway.

The hands were more insistent now, and he couldn't help but wince in pain. The prodding instantly melted away, and he felt a stab of confusion.

Why would they do that?

Usually his irrepressible utterances and grimaces of pain would cause the hands to increase their pressure, to find even more repulsive ways to increase his already intolerable agony.

But now… _now…_ they melted away?

The voices were sounding again, urgent in their differentiated tones, reaching an almost crescendo pitch of nonsensical babbling.

About to turn his head away, to protect himself as best he could from this horrendously cruel breach of reality, a gentle hand caught his face.

The hand was careful.

It was the most careful hand he'd encountered in the best part of a year.

The thumb of that hand gently caressed his cheek, as if trying to wash away all the pain that his tattered visage had endured.

There was something horrifically familiar about that hand.

How much more betrayal from his own mind could he endure, before completely succumbing to the lure of mind numbing insanity.

There was no way that hand belonged to that person.

That person had abandoned him.

That person had cast him aside like a used car part, and that meant that there was no way in hell that that hand was the one gently cupping his puffed up face.

The voice, now alone in its utterance, was heinously real.

So real…

" _Look at me…open your eyes."_

The confused barrage of voices had completely stopped, now…it was just this voice. Just this lone voice and all of the hurt that came with it.

He clenched his eyes tighter still.

" _Open your eyes."_

The hand never left his face, and never lost its gentle, soft hold…but the voice took on an edge of authority, something that stirred in him his natural and acquired instinct for following orders.

His eyes fluttered in inherent compliance, before common sense and recent experience clamped them down once more.

It was a trick.

A deception of his own mind, that had come to ruin his much coveted death.

" _Your eyes…open them, look at me…you know who I am, look at me…."_

His lips trembled.

A burst of hope, of blinding natural hope erupted in him and he didn't have the energy to push it back down.

He _did_ know who that was, but he couldn't bring himself to believe it.

It was too late…

Surely, it was too damn late…

The hand increased its pressure, but remained carefully soft in its grasp.

" _Come on…trust yourself, you know who it is…just open them…"_

This last command was spoken in a near whisper, and it cracked with raw emotion near the end.

It was only that faltering, that exposure of stark fright, that could have penetrated his heavily burdened mind.

He had never heard that voice sound like that.

Vulnerable.

Feeling himself begin to tremble, he took a deep breath that set his abused respiratory system into distress, and slowly….oh so very slowly, flickered his eyes open.

A blurred image met him, as he blinked tentatively. His peripheral vision identified two other upright figures surrounding him, as his direct vision struggled to process the crouched form in front of him.

Feeling his lips blister even as he spoke, he parted them with an almost superhuman effort.

Focussing his gaze as best he could, he tipped his head to the side and stared. His heart constricted painfully with staggering relief and joy, feelings that he hadn't experienced for months…so many months.

They almost felt alien to him.

But…the person in front of him, was no alien. He was as stout as ever, his familiar scent seemed to waft off him as he appraised him with eyes that had once glowed.

Blood trickled down his chin as his lips gave way to the grating effort of speech, and the gentle hand instantly moved to delicately wipe it away.

"Bo…" he swallowed, a mixture of blood and saliva soaring down his windpipe. "… _Boss?"_

The gentle hands found his excruciatingly damaged knees, and the warmth that imparted upon them was like a thunderbolt to his fatigued, frail body.

The almost whispered response was perhaps the most deafeningly, and beautifully melodious thing he had heard since his months and months of earthly hell had begun. His head felt dizzy with the rush of endorphins, which in beautiful turn, eased his physical pain.

"Yeah kid… it's me," the voice responded with an urgency, before cracking some more as it continued, an unprocessed agony evident in its murmured conversation, wrought with conflicting emotions.

The warm hold on his knees intensified.

"We've been looking _everywhere_ for you, Tim."

…

TBC

…


	5. Plane Pain

He vaguely registered being gently taken from the chair, and set carefully onto his feet. His vision blurred dangerously, the sudden change in posture proving too much for his addled brain.

He staggered.

They caught him.

They led him slowly down the dank, limp and frozen corridors that served the hell hole he had languished in for so many months.

They were talking, but he didn't register their words. He didn't even register for sure who the others, save for Gibbs, _were._

It was still too much of a blur.

Sensing that he was in no position to comprehend even the simplest of speech, his rescuers fell silent, and merely guided him steadily, but carefully through a labyrinth of tunnels.

Tim felt his vision fog up heavily at times, and he would stumble inadvertently. Gibbs' hands never left his shoulders, and he was caught every time.

He just couldn't process what was going on.

He tried, but the very attempt made his stomach heave with a sickening nausea.

He wasn't ready yet.

…and so he walked. Slowly, painfully…but still, he walked.

All of a sudden…. a pain seared behind his eyes as they drank in their change in surroundings.

Their _drastic_ change in surroundings.

His lungs expanded with a gusto, searching for and drinking in the suddenly fresh air that played about his face. His many lacerations seemed to almost stop pulsating with pain as the balmy breeze swept lazily over them.

He faltered.

Heavily.

They caught him.

Softly.

There was a plane in the distance…a small, nondescript, non commercial craft. He felt himself being gently propelled towards it, their voices taking on a tone of urgency as their soft hands continued to project him forwards.

He still didn't comprehend their words, or their serious tones….they were lost to him.

He was just remembering what it was to _breathe._

To feed his lungs with its most basic requirement, without wondering when the other foot was going to drop.

His heart instantly lamented that loss of air as he was bundled onto the awaiting transport. Not that the air in the plane was anything like the stagnant air that served the prison, air that was almost viscous in its limpness.

His eyes however, appreciated the additional change, and his vision began to return to some semblance of normality, with blurry shapes rapidly becoming clearer.

He blinked.

Faces swam with a clarity in front of him.

Three faces to be exact, all staring at him from seats opposite him, a range of emotions evident in their gaze that he was in no fit position to discern.

Not right now.

Now whilst his gut was beginning an awful cycle of churning resentment.

Had he _really_ meant that little? Was he _really_ that much of a non entity that putting in an appearance to his life saving rescue was considered to be unnecessary?

Unimportant?

He blinked again, his brows knitting together as he ran a restorative gaze over the three faces.

His voice, still suffering from self enforced apathy, croaked as he forced his protesting lips to open once more.

His throaty, rasping voice made them all wince collectively, but in that moment, he found he couldn't have cared less.

"Where's Tony?" he all but snarled, which was an impressive feat given both his physical and emotional condition.

Flickering gazes were exchanged amongst the three.

Two familiar, oh so familiar faces whitened at his words, whilst another, unfamiliar faze looked on rather impassively.

The reaction of an outsider.

Ziva's gaze rested on Gibbs, clearly communicating in their silent way and Tim felt the anger rise inside him like a raging bush fire.

About to open his abused lips to hurl a tirade at his suddenly muted _teammates,_ he found himself beaten to the punch.

Leaning forward in his seat, so that his knees were practically touching his junior agents, Gibbs' eyes blazed with an awful mixture of fury, fear and rage.

He reached out instinctively, and placed a hand on Tim's knee, who was too intent on securing answers to his _friends_ lack of attendance, to give a damn.

"McGee…" Gibbs murmured quietly, as Ziva looked on apprehensively, "Tony…."

Feeling anger once again lap him, Tim scowled as much as his beaten face would allow.

"Tony…what?" he snapped with a force that surprised even himself, "found himself a date and just couldn't quite _bear_ to let her down?"

Gibbs swallowed and looked down, before forcing himself to look back up and shake his head slowly.

"No McGee" he answered softly, an anguish in his voice that instantly set Tim's nerves and teeth on edge.

There was a moment of deathly silence, before what remained of Timothy McGee's world fell right out from under him.

Before it was _ripped_ right out from under him.

With a force so intense, it made his heart sear with a pain as it jolted into a dangerously rapid beat.

His boss' tortured voice was on par with the horror's he'd heard during Vlada's reign.

"Tim…Tony's been taken too. We don't know where he is…we don't know if he's…if he's alive."

Another gulping swallow was heard, as Tim's mind buckled under the onslaught of information hammering around his fatigued brain.

"He was taken the same night you were."

….

TBC

…

A/N: Plot twist! I regret nothing! ;)

-Inks


	6. Of Tapes and Turbulence

The turbulence of the plane was nothing compared to the turbulence on McGee's face as he stared unseeingly in Gibbs' direction. _Tony…taken?_ That made categorically, _no_ sense _whatsoever._ Feeling an acidic level of hatred that had frankly never been housed inside his body before, he threw a venomous stare across at his boss, who didn't flinch, but seemed almost… _sad._

"You think that's _funny?"_ McGee raged, ignoring the startled look on Ziva's face, "is that your idea of a _joke?"_ His breathing was coming in rapid bursts, his much beleaguered lungs wheezing in protest, but he kept slamming air into them regardless. He needed air to vent his pulsating rage, and they would therefore just have to deal.

Gibbs leant forward and with a mammoth effort, resisted the urge to lay a comforting hand on the kid. It didn't take a genius to realise it would _not_ be appreciated. He struggled to find the words, not an unusual occurrence for him, but in that moment he wished for nothing more than have to been blessed with the art of fluid speech.

"Tim," he began quietly, "there's no joke. Tony…" his voice cracked a bit, "he's missing. Has been since the same night you were taken. "We have no idea where he is, or…well, we have no idea how he's doing."

McGee stared, with curled up lips, a feral snarl on his face that was perhaps the first to ever cross the handsome features. He, generally, was not the snarling type. The look he threw at Gibbs in that moment however, was nothing short of sinister. Made more so by the deep cuts and gaunt expression of his previously boyish face.

"I _saw_ Tony in the bull pen, just a few _days_ ago," his eyes swivelled round to Ziva and who, he now realised, was the man who in the video was seated at his desk, "he's _fine."_

He sucked in a ragged breath and jerked his head towards the silently watching unknown agent. Cutting Gibbs short as he began to speak in the process.

"I see you had _no_ trouble replacing _me_ though," he grinned maniacally, jerking his head in the man's direction, "who's this then, Agent McTwo?"

Gibbs rubbed his temples slowly and shook his head.

"This," he replied quietly, "is a special ops recovery Agent Connors on loan to us from the feds, he specialised in bringing back captured men."

The plane jerked, at that moment, causing the four occupants to be tussled slightly. Ziva and Gibbs' hands instantly shot out to steady Tim, who just as instantly slapped them away, with a raw anger still evident on his face.

"A recovery agent?" he mocked loudly, "a _recovery_ agent? Was that day, chilling at _my_ desk, his idea of _recovering_ then? Just you know, having a bit of a rest? Because, if it is, I have to say the feds are about as useless as you guys proved to be."

He paused in his diatribe for a moment, eying the still silent man fiendishly. "Agent Connors, is it?"

Not waiting for the man to affirm or deny, he continued. "Well take my advice man, _run_ while you still can. Because this _team_ , they're just gonna drag you down until you have nothing left."

His jaw tightened, as he looked down in abject anguish, unable to comprehend how they could lie to him the way they were so easily doing, before looking back up.

"Take my word for it."

Agent Connors didn't respond, and it struck McGee in that moment, that this was just another day at the office for him. He averted his gaze, and found Ziva staring at him with an odd expression. Averting his gaze again as his throat constricted, he found Gibbs staring at him with a similar expression.

He settled for staring at the ground.

Before another burning inquiry took a hold of him.

"Where are we going?" he found himself spitting a moment later, the question seemingly so obvious, but only occurring to him now.

Gibbs, still wearing that expression, murmured softly "home, and then straight to a hospital."

McGee blinked.

"And where _were_ we?"

This time it was Ziva who answered, and Tim's eyes reluctantly flickered towards her. He took in her appearance, and found himself drinking in every aspect of her. Everything about her that he had missed so desperately during his incarceration. Now though…now those things, those very same things, made his stomach curl up inside.

"Russian midlands," she answered softly, seeing the disgust in Tim's eyes and feeling her own stomach somersault at the intensity of it.

Nodding, because he couldn't think of anything else to do, McGee suddenly winced as a familiar bout of internal pain surged through him. Gibbs instantly reached out a hand once more, as if he could even _do_ anything.

"Don't _touch_ me," Tim hissed angrily, moving out the way of the well intentioned touch, wincing even more in response as his body protested violently against the sudden movements. Gibbs withdrew his touch, a palpable sadness radiating from him as he viewed his junior agent.

The physical difference from the last time he'd saw the kid, and now, were heart wrenchingly obvious. But the mental divergence…that was the most devastating difference. Conscious of the horrors Tim must have endured, Gibbs took a deep breath and tried with all his might to be gentle.

But he needed to know. He _desperately_ needed to know.

"Tim…the…the people, who held you…did they ever mention anything to you about Tony?" His voice rang with an urgency that instantly set McGee's teeth on edge and his blood pressure surging dangerously upwards.

This, apparently, was _quite_ the _wrong_ thing to say.

"Are you _still_ peddling that story?" he gritted out, "have you become a bit forgetful in your old age or something? I _just_ told you. I saw the damn tape. There's nothing wrong with your precious Tony, he's alive and kicking, but obviously just too busy to be _here."_

He shook his head slowly.

"I was a fool for thinking he would be. That _any_ of you would be."

Gibbs blinked.

"Tim, I-"

A loaded interjection broke him swiftly off.

"You _what?"_ Tim vented with a biting venom, "you were just busy building your boat, and you forgot about me for nearly a _year,_ but…you're _here_ now, so I should just fall into your arms and cry with happiness. Is that it?"

Gibbs shook his head fervently, and tried to answer, but he was once again beaten to it.

"So when you _do_ show up after twelve months of me being tortured on a daily basis, you feed me some cock and bull story about Tony being kidnapped? Are you a special kind of sadistic bastard? Do you get _off_ on causing people the most disgusting degree of misery possible?"

His chest was heaving with the effort of his outburst, and a faint trail of blood trickled down his cheek as his rapid mouth movements irritated the much abused skin.

Ziva gaped from her chair, as Gibbs slowly unbuckled his seatbelt and crouched down on the ground before Tim, his own chest heaving with his own anguish as he took in the destroyed young man in front of him.

"It's not a cock and bull story Tim," he croaked out, "I swear to you, it's not. Tony's-"

Recoiling from the man in front of him, McGee shook his head with an anger that was astounding in such a battered body. He resisted with a degree of will power he didn't know he possessed, from round housing Gibbs straight into his lying mouth. In that moment, in that crushing moment, he _hated_ the man.

He hated the team. He hated…hell, he hated the air that was keeping him tethered to his earthly existence. He found himself wishing, in that dark moment, that Vlada had just killed him where he sat. If he hadn't wasted time with notices and signatures, he could be blissfully settling into whatever awaited him after a long, long bout of purgatory.

But no…oh _no,_ even Team Gibbs were too meddlesome to permit him an effective, painless death.

"I SAW THE TAPE," he shrieked in a miserable Jethro's face, "are you listening to me? I. Saw. The. Tape. There is _nothing_ wrong with DiNozzo, not that if there _was,_ you would have taken a year to find _him_ right? Oh no _, he_ would have been back in time for dinner…"

He petered off, an inhumane pain shooting through him as his lungs worked overtime to support to the oxygen flow necessary flow for such rage.

Suddenly, the plane hit an air pocket, and jolted to the side violently.

Instinctively, and maddeningly, Tim's hands shot out to catch Gibbs as he stumbled with the force of the jerky movements. With the plane returning to its normal gate, he instantly let go of the man's collar as if the soft fabric was capable of scalding him.

Straightening himself up, Gibbs looked squarely at his junior agent, and spoke rapidly. In the full knowledge that he could, and probably would, be cut off at any given moment.

"The tape was a fabrication Tim" he murmured quickly. We had a computer forensics expert come in and analyse all footage from the bull pen with Tony in it, and we saw that Connors was in it too."

He took a deep breath, no interruptions yet, pressing his luck, he pushed on.

"Tony has never even _met_ Connors, Tim. We knew that our feed was being hacked, that's why we brought in the analyst, but we were too late, and we couldn't shut it down. We needed it. It was the first clue as to where you were. We knew that there was a strong likelihood that you would be shown that doctored feed, to make it look…."

His voice cracked again.

"To make it look like we'd basically disavowed you and moved on. I…" he gulped slightly, "I gave the order that the feed be allowed to continue being doctored. I felt…I felt if they knew we were aware of their hacking, your life would be in danger."

He swallowed.

" _More_ danger, I mean…" looking up at a silently staring Tim, his eyes shone with sincerity, "I'm so sorry Tim, I know how it must have looked, but I was trying to keep you alive, without…without knowing if you _were_ alive or not."

Tim's mind was keeling under the weight of the information being delivered to it. He knew, from his MIT experience, that it _was_ indeed possible to doctor footage to such a degree that it was all but unnoticeable. He also knew that NCIS had that kind of pull. Looking down into Gibbs' eyes, he saw nothing but the truth shining back at him.

Still having so many questions, so many burning, shrieking questions, he asked the most pressing. In a now shaking tone, devoid of the anger it had rung with not five minutes ago.

"Tony's really missing?" he whispered, a deadening feeling spreading throughout him at the thoughts of the grinning, teasing DiNozzo languishing in a place like he'd just escaped.

Gibbs' jaw clenched as he nodded slowly.

"He really is," he answered quietly, feeling sick at the warring battle of relief and anguish that was raging inside him. The relief of having his junior agent back, and the anguish of still being without his senior one.

"How?" Tim croaked in horror that matched his darkest days in prison, " _how?"_

There was no missing the warning look that Ziva sent to Gibbs as he spoke, and the rather alarming intensity behind it. The team lead didn't have to be facing her to feel it burning into the back of his skull, as he looked up at McGee tentatively.

That was the first major clue for Tim.

 _Tentative_ and _Leroy Jethro Gibbs_ didn't generally share the same stratosphere as each other, never mind the same damned plane.

"HOW?" Tim all but roared, causing Connors to jump slightly in his seat.

Flinching slightly, Gibbs reached out and placed a hand on McGee's knee, which, mercifully was not slapped away or shrugged off.

Taking a shuddering breath and wishing that he was more lax about lying, but knowing that Tim needed the truth, Gibbs forced his vocal chords to cooperate with his brain, with eyes shining with remorse.

His whispered voice rang with a pain that very few occasions had ever brought about, and it seemed to bellow around the small confines of their accommodations.

"He…Tony, saw them take you, Tim…"

Gibbs swallowed forcibly, and felt himself swoon slightly as he forced himself to continue.

"He went after you."

….

TBC

….

A/N: In response to Guest reviewer: Nope, I don't really plan fic's, I just go along with whatever pop's into my head. If I have a particular storyline that I really want to do, I'll sort of plan that, but generally, it's a chapter by chapter basis

Thanks for reading guys. Will update soon.

-Inks.


	7. The Other Side

Staring through bloodshot eyes, and through equally beleaguered lids caked with dried blood, Tony's jaw clenched as his oppressor grinned eerily at him. A remote control was clasped firmly in his tormentor's grasp as he waved a commanding hand for his cronies to wheel in a jaded looking television, on a rickety stand. Grinning with his all too familiar leer, the man shuffled over to the stand, and raised a brow in his captive's direction.

"About three hours ago," he breathed in a wheezing whisper, "your little friends stormed into the location where my…colleagues, were holding your junior counterpart. They, as it transpires, are not quite as hopeless as we believed. They at least managed to _find_ one of our many, many residences." He laughed mirthlessly, "and _one_ of _you._ I suppose we know now which one of you is more important, do we not?"

He paused then, to drink in the look of tentative, atrophied hope that was tinged with horror that was spreading across the battered face. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he consumed the emotion, feeding his maniacal desires. Whilst perhaps not as bloodthirsty as Vlada, he was certainly afflicted with the perversions of torture based enjoyment. He did not care for his fallen comrades, because, quite like them…he felt nothing.

Still, he found such childish emotions in others quite amusing, in an intellectual sense if nothing else. And the warring battle that was tied to the chair in front of him was nothing short of delicious. Licking his lips in appreciation, Pyotr appraised his most difficult of difficult captives. He was a present, this…Italian fellow. A gift. He was not supposed to be here. He was not the target. But…he, oh, as all Americans tend to do, just _had to_ play the hero. He just _had_ to race after his little protégée.

And now, now he was paying the price.

Heavily.

"Forgive me, my friend," Pyotr murmured in his heavily accented, but crisply perfect English, "I was lost to my thoughts for a moment…what was I saying?" His lips spread further, and a perfect set of gleaming white teeth were exposed. "Oh yes, your little federal playmates…they arrived at our retreat, quite rudely, without notice or invitation." His eyes lit up as he caressed the remote. "I am not entirely acquainted with your culture, nor I am I fully convinced you _have_ any but…we Russians, we do not take kindly to such poor manners, you see?"

Scraping a chair along the ground, he moved closer to a steadily staring Tony, and threw himself down in front him. Folding a leg, in a meticulously pressed pair of military chords, he raised a brow. "I am afraid, that when confronted with such… _rudeness,_ my colleagues had no choice but to try and teach your, ahh…how do you say it?" His lips twitched. "Oh yes…your _buddies,_ they had no choice but to teach your _buddies_ some _respect."_

Stomach churning, clenching and contracting…Tony continued to stare stiffly ahead. He had screwed up a moment ago, he had showed emotion. He had let his mask of indifference slip. He knew better than that. He was reclaiming that mask now, gripping to it like a child to a blanket. It was his _only_ line of defence. His mind…so often taken for granted, was like a battering ram of offence based defence these days. It was the only place he was safe. The only place they couldn't storm and plant their flag.

Of course…of course they _had_ been successful in penetrating it _somewhat._ Over the long, cold, lonely months of sadistic torture and unanswered demands for information, his barriers had crumbled. There wasn't a portcullis in the world that could withstand that kind of assault, without obtaining a dent and a nick. He had dark moments. Moments where he prayed for the end to come, with a swiftness that would snuff the light out of him before he knew it was happening.

But then…then Tim's face would creep into his mind, and he would push those thoughts away. He somehow, had convinced himself…perhaps in the depths of his despair, that as long as he stayed alive. As long as he clung to this earth…so would McGee. It mightn't look like it to the idle observer, but he and the probie had a unique bond, fused as tightly as a welders touch. As long as he was alive, he could _feel_ that Tim was too. And so, he clung, clasped and gripped to this life.

No matter how much he didn't want to. No matter how much he just wanted to lie down, and never get up again. No matter how much he wanted to just go and be with his mother…and sleep. He couldn't. Not as long as he felt that the probie was still alive, and he _did_ feel that he was still alive. Out there somewhere, possibly suffering the same fate as he was. In his most solitary of moments his throat had constricted dangerously, and his green eyes had shone with unshed tears at the thoughts of Tim enduring the treatment he had become so… accustomed to.

The wispy voice, so ill fitting to its owner was burning into his brain now, and he needed to stay focussed. Blinking, he stared resolutely over Pyotr's head. But he couldn't avert his ears the way he could his eyes, and the murmuring tone dripped and seeped into his mind like an oil spill into the ocean. He couldn't outsmart, outrun or outgun it. He had to listen to it, and right now, the more he listened the more his consciousness threatened to depart from him. To leave him in a state of bound unconsciousness.

Literally _and_ figuratively.

"I am afraid that there were causalities my friend," Pyotr crooned, eyes gleaming with the thrill of the con, as he finally aimed the remote at the stationary television. "I am afraid…your team is no longer whole. It is such a pity… _such_ a pity…first _Timmy_ and then your good self. But at least there were two…action menremaining….yes? But now…" He shook his head in sardonically feigned sadness, as his well fed fingers stubbed the "on" button, flickering the blank screen into action.

"But _now_ …there is only one."

Feeling his mask threaten to dissolve, Tony desperately grappled for it as he met Pyotr's eyes, dancing with a twisted glee, with a purposely expressionless set of his own. Inside though, inside…his heart was hammering against his rib cage with a desperation so strong it was as if it yearned to escape. His throat burned with the sudden dryness that encased it, and a clammy, cold sweat was spreading throughout him like wildfire.

Following the glare of the screen as it settled into the playing of a recording, he took in a deep, but subtle breath and prayed for the best whilst feeling faint with the thoughts of the worst. A dark, dank and decidedly gloomy room inched into view. Never even having set foot in the visualised room, Tony could almost feel the despair he was sure was coating the stone flanked walls. This was clearly an old time, run down prison. Unlike _his_ shiny, purpose built, clinical surroundings.

His heart clenched with an almost arresting pain, as the footage suddenly trained in upon a lone, prone figure in the centre of the room. Bound snugly to a large chair, with lacerations and scarring so like his own, sat a shadow of what once was Timothy McGee. Before his mind could even begin to process the sight, and the rampantly complex emotions that went along with it, the image shifted.

Watching with enlarged eyes, Tony suddenly felt his pulse still. Before his heart sang with a joy that was oh, so very quickly and cruelly snuffed out with a dash of incomprehensible misery. There, creeping slowly into the mouth of a tunnel that clearly led to the room he was seeing, was Ziva and Gibbs. Eyes straining, he couldn't see any accompanying figure. He watched from his binds as his boss and his…well, Ziva, inched down the torch lit tunnel, with firearms raised.

Deep green eyes screamed with agony as a gunshot, unheard in his confines, rang out on the footage. The same eye's almost bled with an acute misery as the figures that had caused such fleeting exultation, crumpled. Fell like dominoes, one directly after the other. One figure, tall but stout, draped over their slimmer counterpart in a last ditch attempt at salvation. A fruitless attempt. Both bodies lay still, lifeless…with a stream of ruby red expelling from their wounds with a river flow force. He was compelled to sit and watch as their life literally spilled from their bodies, his eyes once so carefully expressionless, shining with an intolerably intolerable anguish.

Before he could blink, before his eyes could shut and grant him a millisecond of physical respite from the scene in front of him, it switched again. They were back in the room. The room that shrieked desolation and despair from its very foundations. The room where Tim McGee sat bound, but this time, with company. Tony watched with a fear he didn't know he could still feel, as crisply clear audio suddenly filled the room, and a dangerously low voice flittered around his own confines.

Pyotr grinned with an appalling glee as Vlada's, then alive, voice pierced their haunt. He chuckled internally as the ashen quality , of his most perplexing, resilient and downright unbreakable prisoner increased with every syllable. He watched as the lips of the still strong jaw, twitched in an irrepressible despair. Turning to enjoy the show himself, and once again praising himself for capturing that little…technology man, he tapped the remote thoughtfully against his chin. It was so well done, this…tinkering with reality, that if he wasn't the instigating party of it, he too, would have believed it.

His ears pricked up as the death notice negotiations were being played out between Vlada and this Timothy McGee, and once again marvelled at the man's obstinacy. _Perhaps it was a requirement_ , he mused, _in order to work for the NCIS…one must be honourable to the point of utter, suicidal, stupidity._ His hands trembled with a morbid humour as the tape wheeled to an end, with the younger NCIS agent essentially agreeing to end his own life, without even an attempt at an attempt, to save it.

It was delicious.

Pausing the tape, he turned back to a now _very_ queasy looking captive and smiled his eerie smile.

"Now…we have tried all sorts of different methods to loosen your tongue, friend…and they have all proved to be in vein." He leaned back, and crossed his legs. "I am not a man accustomed to failure, I will not tolerate it. So, let us see shall we? Let us see if you, even though prepared to cast aside your own life, are as willing to do so with _his?"_ Pointing to the screen where Tim's frozen face was displayed in all its mutilated, pixilated glory. "Because…" he chuckled in self interruption. "Excuse me my dear man for I am being _patronising,_ I am _sure_ you know what I am trying to tell you, hmm? A clever man like you, surely it is…very _clear?"_

He craned his neck to fully appreciate the edible sense of agony staring back at him, and licked his lips with an almost phantom, cannibalistic appetite.

"Perhaps not…perhaps you are so _tired_ that you are incapable of reading between the lines? Should I just help…how do you say it? Oh yes, help a _brother out?_ "

Not expecting an answer, he ran a hand through perfectly styled hair, and displayed those unnervingly white teeth in an almost demonic, glinting smile. His silky voice rattled around the room, and shook the very foundations of the man in front of him.

"You have five minutes to tell me what I want to know, Anthony DiNozzo…or Timothy McGee is quite literally, a dead man."

….

TBC

….

A/N: Audience Preference Q: (Because I really don't mind either way )

I could finish this story up in one more, lengthier chapter, I think. Or I could fence it out into a longer, multi chapter type situation dealing with the aftermath and recovery etc etc. Like I say, I don't mind. This is enjoyable to write, but I don't mind bringing it to a close either. Lemme know what you guys' think!

-Inks


	8. Bye Bye Timmy

Though people rarely gave him the credit for it, Tim McGee wasn't the only one on Team Gibbs with an analytical mind. Tony DiNozzo could hold his own in that category, and in that moment, the analytics that were swarming around his head would be enough to power a small statistics seminar. His green eyes clenched as he ran through the footage in his mind's eye. Discrepancies and irregularities began to form.

Not because he knew anything about technology. He didn't, not really.

But he sure as all hell knew everything there was to know about how a recovery team would operate. More specifically, how _his_ MCRT leading recovery team would operate. His lips trembled as he blocked Pyotr from his view. The decision making process that was going on under his bloodied, lank mop of hair could potentially impact national security or…be the bullet in the heart of Tim McGee.

First of all, Gibbs would never go in with just a three man team. He'd have a transport option, and flanking agents. Secondly, he'd never go two abreast, that was a complete waste of man power. Thirdly… _thirdly,_ his eyes clenched tighter still, Gibbs just couldn't…he just _couldn't_ be dead. Ziva…she was literally un-killable, she was _Ziva_ for crying out loud. His heart pounded painfully off his abused ribs as he thought rapidly. His next words, if they weren't correct, could either endanger his country or kill his friend.

He swallowed.

His best friend.

Why hadn't he ever _told_ Tim that the constant teasing, the pranking, the McNicknames were just his way of showing that he cared? Were just his way of showing that he was a hell of a lot more than just a colleague to him. His mind raced, as his heart beat so fast the blood was boiling hot in his veins. He couldn't betray his nation. He had already shown he was willing to die before he did that. The scars, the burns and the mental lacerations had shown that. He was perfectly willing to give his life to protect his nation.

..and other nations. Oh so many, varied, nations.

But was he willing to give… Tim's?

Was he really willing to take a gamble, to assess the odds in a mind that had been so violated, when the bounty was probie's heartbeat? He felt his intestines churn as he contemplated, knowing that Pyotr was standing there, just standing there. Leering at him with that almost unearthly smile. No amount of closed eyelids could prevent that reality. He knew that when he opened his eyes, an answer would have to be given. There would be no turning back, no more closing of the eyes. There was literally no way back.

His breath caught in his throat as the image of Tim bound to that chair surged across his mind once more. The gaunt frame, the bloodied face. The bruised body, the torn arms. But that wasn't the most alarming thing…far from it. The most alarming thing was the look he'd seen in his eyes. The look of…resignation. Acceptance. Tony knew that look, because he'd seen it in his own eyes. Felt it in his own body. The apprehension of death, the yearning of release. The only light at the end of the most fathomless, lightless tunnel imaginable.

The question was, had Tim already gone to that light?

Was the tape he'd been shown, some form of fabrication?

What if…what if the probie was already dead, and he talked. Gave them the answers they wanted, to save he who could not be saved, and punching a gaping hole in America's line of defence in the process.

His brow furrowed as he kept his eyes tightly shut. If he talked, their mole, for there sure as hell _was_ a mole, back at NCIS would be poised to act instantly. To put that information to its fullest, and most devastating use.

Ships upon ships, sailor upon sailor… would be in immediate jeopardy. Their very lives, basic survival, would fall into the realm of questionable continuance. He had guessed their plan. The full reach of his estimations had caused him to hurl in the corner of his clinical cell. It was ingenious, if albeit slightly crude. If they got those codes…if they took both remote and physical control of those ships and those sailors…the damage was untellable. The body count, uncountable. The rationale part of him, a singular lone voice screeched that one life couldn't be saved at the expense of thousands.

Or, hundreds of thousands.

But that _one_ life…that _one_ person, was McGee. The rationale part of his brain didn't account for that. Didn't account for the fact that he was being summarily torn apart as his choices, the bleakest of choices, stormed throughout him. On the one hand, he had the thin hope that McGee was not really sitting in that chair in real time, and that somehow, he was safe. He readily conceded to himself that this was an infant's fantasy. Then, on the other hand, he had the near surety that if he didn't…if he didn't _yield and break_ at long last to Pyotr, Tim…would die.

 _He_ would be the case of his friend's death. Knowing his time for contemplation was drawing to rapid close, and with two unbearable prospects raging head on down the thunderous track of his own doom, he forced a deep shuddering breath into his plague specked lungs.

His eyes snapped open.

The emotional agony that resided in the once brilliant green spheres caused Pyotr to physically lick his lips in sadistic glee. Clearly, a decision had been made. He drank in the turmoil with an insatiable thirst, his heart pumping in victory. This prisoner had been the hardest he'd ever dealt with. The most unbreakable he'd ever tried to break. He felt a soft pang of lamentation. He could have had answers _months_ ago if he'd used the man's foolish sense of comrardary against him.

But Vlada, rest his soul, had _insisted_ on complete and utter separation between the two interrogations, and so he had rather happily confined himself to his traditional methods. Looking at his captive now, he braced himself to hear in the information he required so desperately. Sucking in a breath, he showed no outward signs of urgency as he smiled his callous smile. "So, friend," he crooned, "you have made your decision? You have decided to end this foolish defiance, and tell me what it is I need to know? And in the process," he chuckled, causing the hairs on Tony's neck to rise, "you can even save your precious _Timmy."_

His throaty laugh bounced off the sterile white walls once more.

"After all," he continued slowly, "if not for him…and your _heroism,_ you not be sitting here at all. His life…wouldn't be in _your_ hands. So, what's to be?" He walked closer to his bound guest, and knelt down in front of him. Placing a cool finger on the bruised and bloodied chin, causing Tony to choke in disgust, he peered at him intently. Calculating eyes bore deep into anguished counterparts, as the two men stared steadily, silently, for a moment.

"Your answer, friend?" Pyotr eventually demanded silkily, "think carefully, because this is your very last chance." He stepped back, preparing himself for the fruition of their plans to come together in a blinding surge as soon as this _infernal_ DiNozzo opened his damned mouth. Watching, said mouth did _indeed_ open, and he leant forwards eagerly. He was in no doubt that the man would choose to save his _puppy,_ for without that ridiculous bond, he wouldn't be sitting before him.

"Yes?" he prompted viciously, "the code? What is the code?"

Tony stared steadily for a moment, before speaking as clearly as possible through broken, bloodied lips.

"The code?" he all but croaked, looking his tormentor square in the eye. Pyotr resisted the urge to slam what could easily be the thousandth punch into the man's face, instead opting for a stiff, silent nod. His heart continued to rack in his chest, the glittering gleam of answers being so tantalisingly close it was all he could not to reach out and rip them from the man's throat.

Tony drew in what he hoped would be his last breath, and looked up with a square jaw.

"Its…" Pyotr's eyes widened in glee as he spoke, and he nodded with a sickening encouragement. "That's right, that's _right_ my friend…save _your_ friend, for they have abandoned you both. Tell me what I need to know, and both of you walk free."

Tony smiled then, the effort causing his lips to screech in protest.

"Its…" he repeated slowly, "one…two…and _screw you."_

The expression on Pyotr's face was nothing short of terrifying, but for Tony, who only yearned for death, it was nearly immaterial. Nearly, because his words, if the sadistic bastard in front of him was telling the truth, were surely the nails in Tim's coffin. His stomach writhed as he considered what he'd just done, that he'd just placed the lives of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, over the life of his best friend.

A shining light of hope flickered feebly in his mind.

Maybe, that video, was all but an illusion. Maybe…just _maybe,_ Gibbs had been successful. Maybe, just _maybe_ Tim was safe now. Back at home, back where he belonged. If that was the case, he would die as happy as a long suffering, tortured prisoner _could_ die. He watched through barely open eyes, as his tormentor went through an alarming change in complexion, before his mouth curved upwards in one of the most feral snarls he had ever seen.

Even, during his near year in captivity.

"You stupid, stupid fool," he hissed, his eyes alight with a malice that would be more appropriate in a horror film. "You _people_ and your _morals…_ " he chuckled mirthlessly, and the hairs on Tony's neck rose in tandem. "Well…let us see, shall we, how _Timmy_ takes your patriotism, hmm? Shall we see, does he appreciate your commitment to country, before my colleagues, place a bullet in his _brainy_ little head?"

Tony's breath caught in his throat.

Before he could answer, before his brain could fully comprehend what he was hearing, a phone suddenly slithered into Pyotr's hand. His cruel fingers flew over its keypad, and placing it on loudspeaker, he allowed it ring clearly in his outstretched hand. A male, gruff, and Russian voice answered. Replying in the same tongue, which Tony understood not a jot of, he gabbled into the phone quickly.

Suddenly their tongues changed to English, horrifying English at that.

"Kill him?" the unknown assailant asked questioningly, without a hint of remorse or concern. Smiling widely at a wheezing Tony, who was desperately trying to escape his bounds, to do what, he didn't know, Pyotr chuckled once more.

"Kill him," he affirmed lightly, "leave the phone on, we have a… _captive_ audience on this end." He made a production of turning up the volume on the call, so even the faintest rustling could be heard as he walked slowly towards a straining Tony.

"Are you ready for your precious Timmy to die, my friend? Are you ready to hear the impact of a bullet against his skull?" His grin widened further as Tony swallowed down vomit, "because he has _you_ to thank. He has _you_ to thank for so…very much, isn't that right? Though, I confess, it _is_ a tragedy that he will die thinking you abandoned him, not knowing that you were so _brave_ for so _long,_ and all for _him."_

He held the phone up higher, as the rustling grew stronger.

"He cannot hear you, this is ahh…a _one sided_ conversation, but if you like, because I am a generous man, you can have one _last_ opportunity to tell me what I need to know. I can… _call_ off our little spectacle here, should you choose to do so. Your choice, of course."

Tony's eyes bulged as the noises on the other end of the line grew stronger, and he struggled all the more fruitlessly against his bounds. "Kill _me,"_ he eventually spat, "just…kill me, I'm the one who's not giving you what you want, kill _me."_

Pyotr beamed in the midst of the anguish.

"You and Timmy," he crooned, "are somewhat similar in terms of what you will and will not do. I fear…my colleagues are growing…tired, of him. As I say, I could ahh… _rejuvenate_ them, but you need to give me what I want. Otherwise…." he raised his brows pointedly, "well…I think you're familiar with the residue of brain matter resulting from a point blank range shot, against a solid surface."

He feigned a shudder.

" _Dreadful_ mess, _awful_ stains."

Tony spluttered and strained, his heart nearly pumping out air instead of blood, such was its frequency. For the first time, in nearly a year, he said a word that he had vowed from day one, never to utter in the confines of this shiny, hell hole.

"Please," he choked, " _please…_ don't kill him. Let him go, he doesn't even _know_ the code. He's a junior agent. Kill _me…_ please…" The sounds on the other end of the line were getting clearer now, as Pyotr's leer grew wider. "Last chance, this is your very last chance Agent DiNozzo….what's it to be? The code, or your protégée?

Tony gasped, and shook his head, feeling dizzy from the force of the blood in his veins.

"I can't… _I can't_ give you the codes…." he pleaded, "please…don't do this. Kill me, I'm the senior agent, _kill me…_ just, just let _him_ go…."

The chuckle, the throaty chortle seemed to screech around every surface in the sterile room. Holding the phone up to his cruel lips, Pyotr crooned a delighted "do it," into the receiver, before holding it out so Tony could hear every last devastating detail.

The captives struggling stopped, as Tim's voice suddenly wafted through the other end. Awestruck at the sound of him, Tony was speechless, helpless and option-less but to sit and listen. The probie's voice was remarkably strong, remarkably calm and resolute. Tony's eyes bulged as he heart his voice, and heard the words, in his unmistakable tone.

"My name is Agent-"

Tony winced as a loud bang suddenly stopped those words, and as the phone was swiped away from him, and secreted back where it came from. Shock flooded through him, shock such as he had never, ever felt before as he stared straight ahead, the blood pumping mercilessly throughout him

" _Bye bye Timmy_ ," Pyotr gloated, "least he went out with a _bang,_ yes?"

Tony blinked. And then once more. Before, for the first time, in his adult life, completely losing it. Dropping his head down onto his chest, he didn't care. Didn't care what ammunition he was giving, or what pleasure he was providing.

He was sobbing.

Heartrending sobs of guilt and sorrow racked through him, heaving his chest up and down as Tim's voice and face reverberated around his mind. He barely caught his breath, not that he wanted to breathe, before continuing to fall afoul of the pent up damage inside of him.

He, in that moment, feared he would never stop crying.

Two guards, forgotten in the heat of the moment, moved forwards, seeking to remove the man from Pyotr's view, thinking him an inconvenience. But the man waved them down, grabbed a bottle of water from the table just for Tony's torment, and sat on the floor, cross-legged, staring up at him.

Watching the tears drip to the floor, he tilted his head like a curious child. Reaching out, he caught one of the hot, salty droplets in his hand as it fell, and gazed as it seeped through his skin. Staring up once more at the unaware captive, his grin spread across his face once more.

He mightn't have the codes, yet. He would get them, no matter what it took, or _who_ it took.

But for now,….this was a delicious alternative.

For now, this would do.

But only for now.

…

TBC

…


	9. Country Calls

Tim slapped the hand of the wearied doctor once more and glared with a venom that few people could possibly attest to. His jaw tightened and tautened with every passing moment, and his eyes seemed to be transfixed upon the glaringly sterile clock that hung in the hospital room. Staring over the exasperated medic's head, he shot Gibbs a look no-one, in their right mind and in normal circumstances would dare dream of.

"Boss, if you do not bust me out of here in the next five minutes, I will do it myself. It's as simple as that. Tony is _out there somewhere…._ and….you have _no_ idea what he is going through." He paused just long enough to stare the attending out of any notions of placing the needle he was holding anywhere but the medical tray, before continuing. "I can come back here and get all patched and beautified when we _find_ him. I am not dying right now," he paused again to stare at the doctor. "Right?" he demanded meaningfully.

Finding the patient, admittedly sympathetic but nerve grating, Dr Baker nodded tersely.

"Not at this very minute, no," he conceded, "but you do require an incredibly intensive physical recuperation, a serious stint in the burn unit, a full work up…not to mention the ahh, mental health implications and necessary care." Gibbs' approving nod delivered the last kick into Tim's tenuous hold on his temper as his lips bared back in a snarl.

"I am an adult, in possession of a mind sound enough to make logical and informed decisions for my own health and well being. I am not a risk to myself, nor anyone else…and you people cannot keep me here against my will." He glanced meaningfully down at the IV's in his arm. "So either you take these out, nice and medical like, or I'm going to rip them out in the next five seconds."

The doctor sighed and swivelled his head round to look at the obvious boss of the agent with a raised brow. The grey haired man was clearly in deep contemplation as he ran blazingly blue eyes over his man. The battle that was going on within him was apparent, and the irritation the medic felt suddenly dissipated. This poor soul had to balance the health of his agent in front of him against the health of another, of whom he had no idea of his location and condition.

Dr Baker didn't envy the guy.

Gibbs held his breath.

Tim…was in the worst of bad ways. He was a bloodied, battered version of himself. His eyes however, that had been deadened and listless when they first found him, were now shining with fervour and fear. He was terrified for Tony, and that alone rose the panic levels in Gibbs' chest to off the chart territory. He had of course imagined the worse, but it had been so much more terrible than he had imagined. Having Tim back was a staggering relief, but…Tony still being out there had the hairs on the back of his neck on a permanent high.

Tim…had intricate knowledge of how those _animals_ operated, what their end game was. So wrapped up was he in getting McGee to the hospital Gibbs hadn't asked a single question related to the cause of his capture. He knew that the rest the doctor spoke of wouldn't come to Tim when he knew Tony was still out there, no matter what drugs they pumped him full of. He had been in enough chemically altered states to know that they only made one _look_ peaceful, but inside…the war raged on.

He felt his heart quicken as he tried to come to a decision.

Though part of him knew, it wasn't really his decision to make. Tim was merely giving him the opportunity to grant his blessing, whatever he said…he was getting out of that bed. Rationalising, Gibbs knew it would be the lesser of two evils that McGee stick with them rather than go haring off on his own which may occur if he tried to force him to lay down and recover while Tony was still missing.

He took in a tortured breath and turned his attention to the doctor.

"If I were to take him out of here, what can you do for him in the short term, before I can get him back? Is there…medication he can take?"

The medic pursed his lips disapprovingly and barely resisted the knee jerk expletive.

"He has undergone terrible physical trauma," he clipped, "his body is severely lacerated, he is immunocompromised, he remains dehydrated and his organs are in poor condition. His vision is damaged, his sense of balance is skewed and that's just the tip of the ice berg. His mental health…I don't even _pretend_ to have the expertise to touch the tip of _that_ iceberg."

Gibbs blinked under the weight of this horrifyingly frank assessment and cursed himself.

His raging terror for Tony had allowed him to participate in the madness that Tim was in _any_ sort of fit state to go anywhere, or do anything. His sick to the core feeling that only came from having your worst nightmares confirmed as he had stared at McGee, knowing what had or what was befalling Tony, had blinded him to the fact that the junior agent barely qualified as alive. He felt self disgust rise in him as he battled. He could see, that the younger man could see the decision forming in his eyes, and the anger that appeared in the battered, tattered face made him feel faint.

"McGee," he began, before being vehemently cut off.

"Screw you Gibbs," the rescued agent spat, "you took nearly a _year_ to find _me…_ you think I'm going to sit in this bed and watch you take _another_ year to find _him?_ Do you have…any idea what they're probably doing to him, as we speak, this very _second_? Do you have _any_ idea what they've already done to him? Do you have a single _thought_ as to what they're _going_ to do to him now that I've been found? Assuming…" his voice choked off and he looked even more broken than humanly possible, "assuming he's even still alive, that is."

Gibbs and Ziva flinched.

Ziva's movement seemed to catch Tim's eye, and he rested his bloodied gaze on her for a moment as if surprised she was there. He quickly dropped his stare down to the floor when she looked at him, indecipherable emotions burning in her dark eyes. "We would feel it…if here were…no longer here," she murmured softly, and the catch in her voice was enough to have Tim's eyes swivelling upwards.

.

His heart was still hammering in his chest. The forms of Gibbs and Ziva in front of him still weren't solidified in reality for him as of yet. He didn't know then, but it would take nearly a year for him to look at either of them without incurring a sense of panic stricken fleetingness. Like they could be snatched from him at any moment, in a labyrinth full of abducting vans and grinning assailants. Not knowing what to say in response to her unusually emotional speech, he once again averted his gaze.

Gibbs filled the void.

"I know the idea of staying here while he's out there is killing you Tim," he murmured softly, "but you're… barely functioning. You need serious rest and you need to be here to get it. I swear, we will come to you for help. But advice based help. We _will_ find him, and you don't need to physically be there to be a part of it. You see?"

Tim looked at him blankly.

"Where's Abby?"

This thought had only occurred to him as he sat in a swill of his own drying blood.

This time Ziva filled the void.

"She is trying…she is still trying to run down every possible technical lead. We rang to say we had found you. She…had somewhat of a uhm…breakdown I believe. Ducky is tending to her back at the yard. She hasn't stopped searching for you since the day you both went missing. She has not slept more than three or four hours a night."

There was an iceberg of cold in Tim's being, that had been put there by Vlada. But at Ziva's words, the very most tip of the glacial substance thawed somewhat. He could easily picture a manic, frenzied Abby day in day out in her lab. Ignoring all orders and instructions to rest. He managed to nod in acceptance of Ziva's explanation, before looking back at the nearly forgotten doctor with a grim line to his jaw.

"Are you going to clear me to leave or aren't you?"

With one look at a determined looking Gibbs, the doctor shook his head.

"No, I am not."

Before Tim's furious replies could fill the room, they were all diverted by the loud shrilling of his cell in his pocket. Sighing, he fished it out and answered with his usual terse "Gibbs." The other occupants of the room fell silent, not knowing what to say. No one had the expertise on hand to know the words that ought to be spoken in a situation like they were in. No one had had experience of having a close friend snatched from them, and tortured for a year.

No one had the words.

But no words were needed, as the medic in the room felt his brows knit together at the rapidly paling expression on the head agent's face. The colour was draining so rapidly he felt concern well up inside him. But it was nothing compared to the turmoil that was going on inside Gibbs' head. In deference to the clipped, precise instructions on the other end of the line, he placed the cell on Tim's bedside hanging table, and placed the call on loudspeaker.

The questioning looks he was sent were soon answered.

But not by him.

The voice that filled the room affected them all. It did. But none more so than Tim. Although it was not the voice of his own abuser, it bore a striking, horrifying resemblance. He let out a small groan, before pushing himself as far and as fast away from the phone as possible. Seeing this distress, Gibbs' already alarming rage at the low life scum that had torn their loves apart, moved forwards. Sitting on the bed beside his shaking, shivering junior agent, he placed a warm hand around his shoulders as the voice continued to echo around the room.

"I take it," Pyotr's croon voiced, "that we are all connected now? Agent Gibbs, Officer David…and of course, my own personal favourite, Agent McGee? Are you all there? I assume of course that your other rather odd members of your team are still frantically typing away back at your HQ…" he let out a soft chuckle, "their determination is surely adorable."

He paused.

"Please voice your presence, my friends…it is very disconcerting not to be able to _see_ your pain."

He paused again.

"But I should be able to hear it."

The doctor backed away, but still kept an eye on his patient. The voice that was coming through the line was oddly soothing, and oddly horrifying. It was velvety, and rough all at the same time. The medic didn't know how he knew, but he just _knew_ that the owner of this voice was capable of great damage. Looking at the young man that was now being nearly held by the older one, he knew that he was _looking_ at the kind of damage the owner of such a voice could inflict.

Tim and Ziva looked at Gibbs for direction.

And he was struggling to give it.

Playing along with this animal's demands may only feed into his frenzy. Not playing along with his demands may bear catastrophic consequences for Tony. Biting his lip, he nodded jerkily at his agent's.

They didn't have much of a choice.

"We're all here," Gibbs ground out roughly, followed by a slow "here," from both Tim and Ziva. Hearing the quake in McGee's monosyllabic fear, Gibbs squeezed his shoulder tighter still. The throaty chortle on the other end made the already alarmed doctor want to bolt from the room. "Good, good," Pyotr breathed, "now…how is it you Americans put it? Ahh…let me see, oh yes…shall we get down to _business_ now?"

Gibbs felt his teeth tingle with rage.

"Where is Tony?" he demanded, barely keeping control of himself, "what do you want? I want to hear his voice." The silence that followed was haunting, and Gibbs felt Tim shiver beside him. His hatred levels instantly rose. "Tony…is, let us say indisposed at the moment and cannot come to the phone," Pyotr taunted, "but if you would like him to continue being indisposed, as opposed to you know… _dead_ , then you will listen to me carefully."

Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs saw Ziva pale an impossible white as the air caught in his throat.

"There are codes. Codes that we have tried, if I do say so myself rather _valiantly_ to glean from your two puppies, Agent Gibbs. We, I regret to say, appear to have been unsuccessful with our traditional methods, which I must confess is highly unusual." Gibbs felt a rush of almost dizzying pride. "But…we are out of time I am afraid. I need answers, and I need them today. You will give me these answers Agent Gibbs, or I will send you back your brave little soldier…piece by piece."

He paused as if deep in thought.

"Do you think he would like a movie themed funeral? He seems to like movies, this one."

His next chuckle seemed to shake the very foundations of the room.

"You have one hour from now, my patriots. We are closer to you than you think. We could really only afford to house your Timmy so far away from the good ole US of A. Your Tony, has never left American soil. I must say, we did so _laugh_ over our coffee in the morning when we received intel that you were scouring the Iran wilderness for your poodle."

He paused again as Gibbs felt an anger so intense surge through him his whole being trembled.

"Anyhow, I digress. He's given me that poor habit you know? Digression. But yes…we are out of time. I need the codes that will give me remote control of your most overt surveillance ships."

They didn't need to see him to imagine the manic glint in his eye.

"And of course…full control over their launch missile codes, and a full dossier on each and every agent, both afloat and stationed, undercover and field."

His sickly smile didn't need to be visible to be seen.

"I am sure you will have that rather insane little forensics woman trace this call, we've been on long enough. You have one hour to get here, _alone_ Agent Gibbs. You will leave the Israeli, our released puppy and the strange girl at _home._ I trust you know that we are not men to be tested. I will be able to tell from one hundred yards out if you have or have not done as commanded. You follow these instructions, give me the codes that are inside your head, and I give you back your man."

The pause was deafening.

"If sixty one minutes should pass, and you are not here…you can expect Agent DiNozzo's right ear, special delivery."

The click of the phone disconnecting was equally as earth shattering.

The doctor, and three agents stared at the cell for a moment. As if it were some form of bizarre object from the future, before their sensibilities kicked back in. Tim snapped the phone up and instantly flipped through the contacts to get to Abby. Gibbs leapt up from the bed and thought furiously. Ziva ran a hand through her tangled mop of curls, wincing as her heart beat painfully against her chest.

Tim was speaking in low, rapid tones trying to convince Abby that he was both alive, though not entirely well and that time was of the absolute essence. The two were soon immersed in technical interchange, and Gibbs seized his moment. He pulled Ziva aside and forced himself into boss mode. "Tim is to co-ordinate with Abby on the technical side. You are to _stay_ here and _ensure_ he does not leave that bed. You understand me Ziva?"

The look she threw at him was answer enough.

"I know," he assured through gritted teeth, "I _know_ you want to take down these sons of bitches. But…I can't take any risks. They're the most professional of professionals and they _will_ know if I bring you in. You have to keep Tim safe. That's your job now….to keep him safe and to trust me to bring Tony home."

He paused for breath.

"Can you do that?"

She stared for a moment, a battle raging within her, before nodding curtly, with a desperately pleading look in her eye. Understanding what she couldn't say, Gibbs nodded and shouted "send those coordinates to my other cell Tim," over his shoulder as he sprinted from the room. He didn't stop to hear the war that's instantly raged in the room, and he was in the lift before the doctor could even blink in the din.

He made it to his car in record time and throwing himself behind the wheel, the cell that always lived in the glove compartment shrieked into life. The address that beamed up at him made his mouth instantly run dry and his mind spin. He had driven past that place, every single morning for the last year. Had Tony been in there that _whole_ time? Had he been screaming in pain just meters away from him whilst he forced himself to turn up in the morning?

A pain that had nothing to do with a lack of food blazed in his abdomen.

The tires burned as they screeched from the lot. He would make it there if he floored it, in about fifty four minutes. He didn't dare call it in. There was still the question of a mole back at the agency. He knew he couldn't trust anyone but the people he had left in the hospital room. He knew very well that he was more than likely walking into a grab. That, having exhausted their efforts with his men, they were going after him. He had the codes they sought, but like Tony and Tim he would quite literally die before handing them over. The fallout for countries, continents and civilisation as a whole would be unthinkable.

He felt another streak of pride for what his agents' had achieved, marred with a tarring of agony for all that they had endured.

He had one him but one gun. One solitary pistol against what was most likely an arsenal. He was walking into a lion's den. He felt in his gut that Tony was still alive, but his gut was also telling him that getting him out of that industrial unit in the same condition was not at all likely. Nor was getting himself out either. The choice of their set up was quite brilliant. Hiding in plain view, amongst a new development of pharmaceutical research plants. Glass upon glass rows of clinics and centres.

Not the place you'd look for a captured, domiciled agent.

His hands gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckled glared white. The image of Tim's face swum in his mind. Bloodied and battered, bruised and beleaguered. What state would he find Tony in? What condition would the man be in? Would he even recognise him? Gibbs knew enough of the scale of the operation he was facing to know their resources were unlimited, and their ruthlessness unleashed.

No man could go through it and be the same.

He knew Tim would never be the same.

But he didn't know would Tony even get the opportunity to never be the same.

He made it in fifty two minutes.

His weapon drawn, he exited the car. The particular coordinates pointed to a large, domed building that sat slightly apart from the rest. Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he cautiously neared the dwelling, his snipers experience telling him that he had, for some reason, no armed shooters on the rooftops looking down on him. There was no door, or obvious point of entry to the building and for a moment he stood, bewildered. But then…a smooth action sent a secreted pane of glass gushing upwards, revealing a clinically white entrance within.

Gibbs took a deep breath.

He was potentially, if not probably walking into his own death. He could accept that…if he could make it count. If he could get back his man…it would be worth it. The moment he stepped inside the cool atrium, the pane descended…sealing his fate. Blinking in the face of all the _whiteness_ he kept his weapon poised and ready. He refused to physically startle, but the voice when it rang out forced his heart into an unnatural rhythm.

Echoing out from nowhere, and yet everywhere, the voice on the phone called to him.

"Two hundred feet ahead, take a right. Another hundred feet, and take a left."

The chuckle was as unearthly as ever.

"Tick tock now Agent Gibbs, tick tock."

Clenching his teeth, he did as he was instructed. His movement made no noise as he glided across the sterile floor, and followed the precise directions. Two minutes later and he found himself outside a glaringly white door. He took a breath, and reached out. The handle was cold to his touch as he turned it cautiously, raising his gun even higher. It made no noise as it glided open, revealing the room within.

Gibbs' heart went into a state of spasm.

The reason for his lack of Arial coverage became apparent. Bodies littered the floor, blood festooned the walls and a sense of despair clung to every crevice. The room had but a chair and an odd buffet style table in it. And there…in the centre of the room, attached to the chair sat…

"Tony."

The gasp was out of his mouth before he could help it, and he cursed himself. It reeked of personal despair and hurt. Rule number one of recovery operations…never _ever_ indicate a personal relationship with the captive. But he couldn't help it. If he thought Tim was bad, Tony was worse. His handsome face, congealed with dried and drying blood was borderline unrecognisable. His hair was long, greasy and lank. His eyes were blackened, puffed and deadened.

He was broken.

…but he wasn't broken _down._

His head, languishing on his lacerated chest twitched at the sounds of a voice that seemed to belong to another lifetime. Only when it came again, more frantic, more frenzied did he lift his heavy head. Focussing through bloodied eyes, his brows came together as he eyed this new arrival. The same eyes widened, as a clear battle between fiction and reality warred within. Before Gibbs could help, before he could physically how himself not to be a mirage, a shadow swooped down over the prone form.

Emerging from nowhere, Pyotr's grin was maniacal.

"Hello Agent Gibbs," he all but cried in twisted delight, "we are so _thrilled_ you could join us."

A heavy calibre weapon was summoned as if out of thin air and placed against a staring Tony's temple. "Now…as you can see," the offender sighed, indicating the bodies strewn at his feet, "I have lost my _patience_ with this lack of _progress._ Even my own men aren't, and as you can see _weren't_ safe from my wrath. So…if you would Junior's head here to continue being attached to his neck, I say we get…ahh, straight to the chase. Isn't that how you say it? _Straight to the chase?"_

His laugh was guttural.

"I really cannot wait to leave this dump and be amongst those who speak _sensible_ languages."

He shook his head bemusedly, and Gibbs instantly knew that this man…had cracked.

Had lost it.

"Now…there are four codes. One for each major warship. Of those four codes, there are three sub codes. So there are twenty eight codes in total. We have spent time, money and resources trying to pry these codes from your boys here…but time is now of the essence. So, excuse my curtness…but, I must insist…" he placed the gun closer to Tony's temple, "what _are_ the codes?"

Gibbs felt his world disintegrate.

This man…had blasted away his own team. He was clearly deranged, and suffering a break. He would squeeze that trigger with an instants provocation. Tony's life hung in a very unsteady balance. On the other hand, national and international security was also in that balance. He knew he had to bluff, and buff fast…but this was a man that wouldn't be easy to fool.

"Boss… _don't…."_

Both men flinched.

Gibbs in agony, Pyotr in irritation. "Silence," he hissed, as the blood spewed forth down Tony's face with the exertion of his small speech. Tony shook his head feebly, his eyes bulging with the request not to break. To let him die, to not have let his years suffering be in vain. To protect that which they had sworn to protect. To tell his animal to go to hell.

But Gibbs…he couldn't.

Raising his pistol in a gesture of surrender, he took a breath. "You have something I want, and I have something you want," he said quietly, "you let Tony go…you let him get outside this…whatever the hell this place is…and I'll tell you what you want to know. I'll tell you. But he goes. He goes now, and you don't lay another finger on him. You can have me and your codes, for his freedom and safety. That's the deal."

Tony's moaned in physical and emotional agony as he shook his head vigorously.

The glint in Pyotr's eye grew more manic.

"The codes," he hissed, "and then you get your puppy back."

Before Gibbs could come up with another ploy, another bluff…there was the slightest of slight shuffling. There was the slightest of slight breezes in the windowless environments that could only be caused by human movement. There was the faintest of faint coughs, in rapid succession…one short and one long. There was the dawning of recognition in both Tony's and Gibbs' eyes as they stared at each other.

Before simultaneously ducking.

Two bullets soared through the air, cracking the sterility with their gate. The metallic blurs bursting out over the heads of a chair bound Tony, and a floor bound Gibbs. There was a dull thud as each bullet made a different point of contact. There was a moment's pause, where nothing had changed but everything had changed.

Then the figure of Pyotr fell to the floor with a resounding crash.

His gun still clutched in lifeless fingers.

For a moment, nothing or nobody moved. And then everything and everyone moved. Looking up from the floor, Gibbs felt his mouth fall open as he caught sight of Ziva pulling Tony's bounds loose, murmuring softly to him. Within a second, he was up and at her side, gently removing the chords that bit into the young agent's skin.

Within seconds, they had Tony in a seating position on the ground, supported by both their arms.

Before they could say anything, a shadow fell over them.

Looking up, the first _real…._ the first devastatingly _real_ Tony DiNozzo emotion crossed the newest releasee's face as he stared up, along with Gibbs, at the shadow in amazement. A silence blanketed the room, and Tony's body jerked under the effort of processing what he was seeing. His slight frame, so dilapidated through depravity shuddered in Ziva's and Gibbs' gentle grasp as he stared through a tattered, battered face at an equally tattered, battered face.

The face knelt down in front of him, a river flow of emotion brimming in the eyes.

"Probie?"

The face split into the most forcefully sincere smile he'd seen, the head nodded fiercely.

Tony gulped and gurgled on his own bodily fluids, desperate to believe all that he yearned to believe. The hands that held him were warm, they were real. The person in front of him was also warm…and also real. His lungs heaved with the effort of breathing in these realisations, as he pushed a greasy curtain of hair out of his green eyes to better see the miracle around him.

He swallowed.

"You look like McHell."

….

FIN

…


End file.
